September 30th

“Praise the Lord!
   How good it is to sing praises to our God;
   for he is gracious, and a song of praise is fitting.” Psalm 147:1

one day it is that
golden oldie which brings back
memories as old as the song,
while at night it is that
earworm of a jingle which
we just can’t stop replaying.
it could be the gentle purring
of the cat next to us
or the soft, contented
thumping of the dog’s tail.
there is the classical melody
played by the wind as it
moves the leaves in trees
on a fall evening
and the cacophony
of pots and pans pulled out
of kitchen cabinets by
bored kids on a rainy day.
it is the last night
at the BBC Proms,
or it could be that student
playing a soft piece
on the saxophone as
their teacher is laid to rest.
praise is that multi-faceted
heirloom of which we
are heirs but for a moment.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

September 29th

and I will sow him for myself in the land. And I will have pity on Lo-ruhamah, and I will say to Lo-ammi, "You are my people"; and he shall say, "You are my God." Hosea 2:23

listen to what God has to say—
to those who are silenced:
you are my closest advisors,
the voices i turn to first.
to the transgender kids
who are bullied by politicians
and ultra-righteous prigs:
you are my Beloved,
I rejoice in you.
to the immigrants who
are turned away by fear:
there is always room
for you in my Community.
to all who bear
the bruises, the scars,
the wounds, the memories
inflicted by the cruel who
claim to care for all:
I wrap you in the shawl
of grace, woven from the
threads of love and hope.
to all the forgotten, 
the vulnerable, the discounted,
the lost, the grieving, the lonely:
I am your God,
you are my people,
and always will be.

(c) 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

September 28th

“From there I will give her her vineyards, and make the Valley of Achor a door of hope.” Hosea 2:15a

so many valleys—
where grief wears a path
through our hearts,
where hard news comes
far too often,
where we worry that
hope has packed
its moving van.
yet, God always manages
to plant gardens in that soil
we think will only yield tears,
in those trouble-filled hearts
which, by grace, become doors
opening to the forgotten.
so, may doors of hope
open in a child learning
to step out in trust,
in neighbors choosing
to listen and not shout,
in caregiver holding the hand
of the lonely,
in hands which reach over
those walls we build
to keep others out, to welcome
them to our community.
perhaps hope is nothing more
than the door God opens
in the troubled valleys of life,
inviting us to walk through
together.

(c) 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

September 27th

"'The kingdom of heaven is like . . .'" Matthew 13:44a

the restaurant where there
are no reserved seats
and the hungry do not
need to prove they deserve a table.
the stranger who sees someone
standing alone at a gathering
and invites them to join
the conversation.
the streets where doors
are left unlocked because
neighbors know they are responsible
for the safety of others.
the politician who knows
that power is not a throne
but a towel and basin.
every faith community which asks
‘who is missing?’ and not
who belongs here?’
the bread which is broken
not hoarded and the grace
shared before it is earned.
enemies who realize that
the other has a face, a story,
a struggle, a name.
God’s Beloved Community
breaks through the cracks
of our world—
wherever mercy has the last word,
justice welcomes the forgotten,
love makes up the spare room,
for it does not come
with trumpets and lightning
but when we actually live
as if it is already here.

(c) 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

September 26th

“O God, you are my God, I seek you,
   my soul thirsts for you;
my flesh faints for you,
   as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.” Psalm 63:1

we thirst, our God—
in streets where weariness
is the way of life,
homes where silence
speaks instead of words,
hearts shriveled by grief,
loneliness, all those headlines
which make hope despair.
so many wells around us,
yet we are parched.
our fingers dance over
our devices for answers,
we go to all the sales on comfort,
we scream our truths
across the abysses—
all the while wondering why
our souls are death valleys.
but maybe—
our thirst itself might become
prayers where you meet us,
pouring the water of life
into those hidden cracks,
until our weary souls
remember—
you never mean for us
to live without you.

(c) 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

September 25th

"By the rivers of Babylon— there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion." Psalm 137:1

there are rivers
found on no maps—
trickling down hospital corridors,
flowing with tears,
flooding refugee camps,
rushing through neighborhoods
where sirens are the lullabies
children hear each night.
there are those rivers
on which float

the names of
all those we have lost,
the flotsam and jetsam of dreams,
the familiar places we no longer
can call home.
perhaps this is where
faith can begin—
not building bridges
over the sorrows of others,
but by sitting on the banks
beside them in silence,
listening to the waters,
daring to weep
as their tears flow.
for God
has never tried to dam
our rivers of tears,
but simply slips into
the waters to be with us

(c) 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

September 24th

“So the word of the Lord grew mightily and prevailed.” Acts 19:20

sometimes
your word is like a
massive oak tree whose
roots sink deep within us,
or again, like those puffs
from a dandelion which float
and dance in the air.
sometimes
your word is that sharp rebuke
our partner offers when
we think we can get away
with all sorts of foolishness,
or again, that soft whisper
in the middle of the night,
‘it’s okay, don’t be scared.
i am here beside you.’
sometimes
your word comes in those
ponderous, theological phrases
of the preacher strutting their stuff,
or again, in silly songs
children make up on the swings
in the playground
as we walk by with our dog.

(c) 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman